


i'm disheveled, i'm disdainful (i'm distracted and it's painful)

by MoragMacPherson



Series: 23 ½ Weeks [5]
Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: M/M, POV Carlton Drake, Sickfic, and i am working with the time and characterization that the canon has given me, but it will be back in the next fic, drake is not a very good patient, eddie is somehow not the worst nurse, once per fic reminder that these characters are THE WORST, sickfic does not lend itself to smut, you may need to google Nelson Rockefeller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-05 02:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16358513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoragMacPherson/pseuds/MoragMacPherson
Summary: Usually when Drake wakes up in Eddie's bed, he has a clearer memory of how he got there





	i'm disheveled, i'm disdainful (i'm distracted and it's painful)

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to eisoj5 for her beta work and encouragement again, as well to all of the readers who've been commenting and supporting this series.

Carlton Drake wakes up in Eddie's bed. 

It's not the first time, nor likely the last, but he has a brief moment of panic as he comes to consciousness, because normally when he wakes up in Eddie's bed, he remembers falling asleep in it. And usually he isn't wearing— shit, is he wearing _sweatpants_? 

He struggles to sit up, his stomach lurching and head aching with renewed viciousness as he does. "Hey there— slow down, you scared the living shit out of me last night," says Eddie as he comes in from the other room. He presses Drake back down against the bed and Drake is a little ashamed; he's trying to fight back, but Eddie is _winning_. "Not to mention that fucking security chief of yours, but he didn't want to risk anyone seeing him carrying you out of here—" 

Drake attempts to summon a fierce glare, but from the reaction it gets, he suspects it falls short. "'Carrying me out— what are you talking about? Why am I— fuck," he mutters, ceasing his struggles and falling back on the bed, because this might not be one of his migraines, but his head _hurts_ and his chest aches. 

And Eddie looking down at him with a combination of concern and pity isn't helping at all. "You are, despite every protest you've made in the last twelve hours, sick. Because you are also _human_ and it happens. Evil Billy Corgan says half your damn scientists are out with it, and it's just a normal, terrestrial germ— and your life is really kind of fucked up that he had to be specific about that," he says, leaning over Drake to rearrange the pillows, which actually does help a bit. 

"He has a name, you know," grumbles Drake, mustering up a small glare that will have to do for now. "You're a reporter, aren't you supposed to be good with names?" 

Eddie snorts softly as he steps away. "Every interaction we've had included him slamming me up against a wall at least once, including last night. Don't look so jealous," he chides as he picks up a thermometer from the nightstand and swishes it around in a bottle of rubbing alcohol before pushing it inside Drake's mouth. "He ever stops doing that, then he can have his name back." 

It's not the least logical thing that Eddie's ever said, and Drake's got to keep the thermometer under his tongue, so he'll let it slide for now. He pulls the thermometer out of his mouth before Eddie can when it beeps. "It's only… 102.3," he says, slumping back against the pillows. "Fuck." 

Eddie plucks the thermometer away and swishes it in the rubbing alcohol again before tucking it in its case. "That's right," he says, stepping out of the room briefly and returning after a few moments with a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water. "Take these. I got some very stern lectures from Evil Billy Corgan about cleanliness, hygiene, and diet and whatnot, plus he brought over all these wonderful supplies and some soup and other things," he says, shaking his head. "You must pay him very well." 

Drake huffs out a laugh once he's swallowed the pills and drunk all the water, which is somehow the best water he's ever had, though he heard a tap running— it's not even filtered. "He's good at his job." He sets the water glass on the nightstand before sliding his legs off the bed. "I need to use the bathroom," he says, holding up a hand when Eddie moves to stop him. "And I'm not going to fall," he adds, almost as much to himself as to Eddie as he pushes up on his feet. 

The world is entirely too spinny when he does, and to his chagrin, he is grateful for Eddie's steadying grab of his arm. "Thank you," he mutters, letting Eddie guide him the short distance to the bathroom. "And is there— do you know why I don't remember falling asleep here?" he asks softly, half hoping that Eddie won't hear him. 

"Because you're a stubborn asshole," says Eddie with a soft snort, grinning at the look Drake turns on him like Drake's some kind of adorable kitten. Drake wants to claw his eyes out, once he's back in bed and doesn't have to worry about falling. "And dehydration's a bitch— this whole 'needing' to go to the bathroom' thing is actually kind of encouraging." Eddie lifts the lid of the toilet with his foot. "I'll give you your privacy," he adds, slipping out the door. 

This is fine. 

Drake manages to use the bathroom and brush his teeth and wash his face— fuck, he's got scruff, his beard always grows in so damn fast, but he's not using Eddie's drugstore razor, especially not when the only thing he really wants is to lie down again. He wipes his face off on the towel, and tries not to lean so heavily on the rack that it falls down as he opens the door. "I don't feel so well," he admits, letting himself lean heavily on Eddie because Eddie can take it. 

"I know you don't, Drake. Come on," he says, and it's not so bad, when Eddie's not being an asshole about it. 

Drake doesn't count on that to last for long. But he can crawl back into the bed, burying his face against the cool, nonjudgmental pillowcase and quickly fall back to sleep, which is really the only thing he feels up to doing, so he does that instead. 

When Drake wakes up again he's feeling only slightly better, but he can remember the night before a little more clearly— feeling a little under the weather, but trying to run it off. He'd managed a measly five miles before deciding to stop and come here instead, because his head had been hurting and Eddie's a pain in the ass, but he's always good at relieving Drake's tension. 

Arguing with Eddie that he felt _fine_ and didn't need a nursemaid, he just needed a fuck. Grabbing him in a fireman's carry to shut him up and being vaguely aware that it was a bit more difficult than he'd expected, but it wouldn't do to let Eddie know that, and tossing him on the bed. Giving Eddie a nice long blowjob to prove that he wasn't winded, then flipping him over to fuck him and then— 

_Shit_. 

"I pulled a fucking Nelson Rockefeller on you, didn't I?" Drake mutters when Eddie comes in, scrubbing his face with his hand, his cheeks burning. 

Eddie places a fresh glass of water on the nightstand. "I'm not twenty two and you're not dead, but, yes, you did your damndest to pull a Nelson Rockefeller on me," he says, laying a hand on Drake's forehead. "You're still warm, I'll get the Tylenol," he says, shaking his head, a rueful and almost affectionate smile on his face. 

As much as Drake would rather be in his own bed, he can't deny that it is kind of nice, to have someone to go get his Tylenol without having to worry about paying them overtime. 

"Thank you," he says when Eddie returns, taking the Tylenol and swallowing them down along with the whole glass of water, because his throat keeps being dry and Eddie might have had a point about dehydration earlier. 

"It's nothing," says Eddie with a shrug. "And really, you're lucky you passed out during sex. Otherwise I could have filmed you unconscious on the floor and written one hell of a clickbait article on Buzzfeed," he adds with that crooked-tooth grin of his, and Drake can't help but laugh. "Would have been a pretty nice payday, not gonna lie." 

Drake lets out a sigh, pulling up the blankets a little higher. "Sorry I deprived you of that opportunity, then," he says. 

"You feeling hungry? I've got close to a gallon of soup in the fridge— smelled bland as hell to me, but, y'know, it's soup," says Eddie, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. 

Drake takes a deep breath, hating the way that it makes his chest ache. "Yeah, some soup is probably a good idea. Any chance Treece left my tablet here too?" he asks. 

"He did. But soup first," says Eddie, rolling his eyes at the look Drake gives him in reply. "Fine, I'll get you your tablet _while_ I'm warming up your soup," he says, heading out of the bedroom to retrieve the tablet and tossing it on the bed before leaving again. 

Drake picks up the tablet and sets it on his knees, doing his best to keep his eyes open long enough to let the facial recognition work, then fumbling the keycode twice before getting it right. He's only just managed to open his email when Eddie appears with soup. "I hate being sick," he mutters, setting the tablet aside so Eddie can set the tray on his lap. 

"Couldn't tell," deadpans Eddie. "You want me to bring my laptop in here, so you can watch some Netflix without it timing out on you in the name of security?" 

Drake hums around a spoonful of soup, which is indeed a bit bland but nice and warm, and it makes his throat feel slightly less horrible. "I should really get some work done," he says, glancing down at the tablet— there are reports he could be reading, at the very least. 

He looks up and Eddie's giving him a rather inscrutable look. "Okay. Think I'm gonna get my laptop anyway, maybe watch some Netflix next to you, and then you can decide for yourself," he says, which is kind of ridiculous, and Drake does his best to ignore him. 

Drake eats the soup as quickly as he can, which as it turns out is really not all that fast. It's _galling_ because 'eating soup' is not an activity which should make him feel slightly winded, but his hands are shaking when he picks up the tray to set it aside. "Let me get that for you," says Eddie, setting his laptop aside and getting up to take the tray away. 

Watching him go, Drake realizes that he hasn't had to yell at Eddie once for doing something completely slovenly yet today. He _could_ complain about the fact that Eddie keeps refilling his glass with tap water, but that _is_ the kind of thing Eddie could technically get away with filming and putting on TMZ, and Drake would rather not risk it. Besides, it's not so bad, he decides as he chugs another half a glass while Eddie gets back into bed. 

"Looks like eating helped a little," says Eddie, resuming the cartoon that he's watching on Hulu, scowling when another ad comes up almost immediately. 

Drake nods, trying to unlock his tablet again, but— _really_? "You should up your subscription to no ads, that's annoying as hell," he says, setting his tablet aside and reaching for the laptop instead. 

"Wait— I can't afford— what are you doing?" asks Eddie, holding up his hands as Drake logs him out and types in his own log-in. 

"It's maybe four dollars more a month, it's worth it," says Drake, laying back in his spot and settling back in while considering the tablet on the nightstand— his eyelids are starting to feel heavy again, so he sighs and turns onto his side, towards Eddie and his laptop. "Have some respect for your own quality of life," he mutters, biting back a yawn. "You're welcome," he adds as Eddie finds the place where he left off on the cartoon. 

To his surprise, Drake doesn't at all resent the fingers brushing his hair back— they actually feel kind of nice. "Thank you, Drake," says Eddie, and then he gets distracted by the strange girl dressing up as a boy and… sneaking into an audition or something and it's not so bad, really, but before she's decided whether she's boy crazy or not, Drake's fallen back to sleep. 

When he wakes up the next time, there's no more light coming through the windows and Eddie's asleep next to him, snoring lightly. Drake pauses the video and then rolls out of bed— he still doesn't feel great, but the world's not spinning and he'll take that. He grabs the water glass off of the nightstand and goes to refill it, reminding himself to add a Brita filter to the shopping list for next time. 

More water drunk, Drake heads to the bathroom and takes a long, hot shower— the slight dizziness is worth feeling tremendously more human by the end. Drake grabs the sweatpants off the ground once he's dry— there's bound to be something slightly more acceptable in Eddie's closet, he just needs to look. 

Except Eddie's awake, setting what looks like some leftover rotisserie chicken in the microwave to warm when Drake gets out of the bathroom. "Take it you're feeling at least a little better," he says, opening the fridge, the light inside illuminating his face. "Got what I assume is fresh squeezed orange juice in here, if you'd like some, and more soup, and some green gunk in a jug that smells like death but that Evil Billy Corgan said you might want later," he offers. 

Drake nods, pulling the towel a little tighter around his hips. "I wouldn't mind some green gunk and more soup— but could I borrow some more clothes first?" he asks. 

"Ah— right, follow me," says Eddie, heading into the bedroom and pulling a slightly less objectionable set of pajama pants out of his drawer, hands hesitating in his underwear drawer before pulling out what looks like the least objectionable pair of those as well. "What?" asks Eddie when Drake slants a look at him while he's handing them over. 

"I'd rather not ask again, but it might be nice to at least be offered a shirt. It's kind of chilly," says Drake. 

Eddie smirks at him but opens up his drawer. "Yeah, all right— guess I've seen enough of your bare chest today. It's not that great to look at when you're still looking like death," he says, handing Drake a black t-shirt that is mercifully plain and bereft of any kind of slogan. 

"My bare chest is _always_ nice to look at," says Drake, waving Eddie away. "Go on, I just heard your chicken beep," he adds, waiting until Eddie's left the room to drop his towel and get dressed. The clothes are all just a little big on him, but the pants have a drawstring and he pulls that tight before heading out to the kitchen, where Eddie is pouring soup out of a pot and into a bowl. 

"I was going to bring it—" begins Eddie, but Drake waves him off. 

"I'm feeling just human enough to eat at the table, thank you," says Drake, getting himself a glass of his smoothie before sitting down at the table and taking a sip. 

Eddie points at Drake once he's set the soup down in front of him. "See— you actually wanted the green goo and even you can't stop from making that face when you drink it," he says, sitting on the opposite side of the table and taking a sip of his beer. 

Drake scowls at him as he picks up his spoon. "It's good for me. Got vitamins and actual vegetables in it," he says, letting out a soft sigh. 

"And yet you're the one who's sick, while I'm just fine. Must be all these preservatives, preserving me," says Eddie, popping a tater tot into his mouth with a grin. 

Not glancing up or changing his expression, Drake replies, "You're a very funny man, Mr. Brock. I'm just saving my laughter for a couple days from now when you're even more sick than me," he says, taking another sip of his soup. 

"Well, at least I'll have plenty of leftover soup to tide me over," says Eddie. But he does have the courtesy to simply let Drake eat after that. 

After dinner Drake brushes his teeth and then retreats to the bedroom almost immediately. Eddie insists on checking his temperature, and Drake feels rather triumphant when the thermometer shows his fever's down to 100.4. "Beat this bug in just one day— that's what eating your vegetables gets you," he says, pulling the covers up over his shoulders. He doesn't even consider his tablet— it will all be waiting for him when he's feeling better in the morning. 

Eddie shakes his head, slipping into bed next to him and retrieving the laptop to turn the cartoon on again. "And I suppose you've never heard of something called a 'twenty-four hour bug' then?" he asks lightly, his fingers hesitating for a moment before they start stroking through his hair again. 

Drake decides he doesn't mind the attention, not after a day of Eddie clearly trying hard to be a decent person for his sake. "Sounds fake to me," he murmurs. He manages to stay awake for a whole episode this time before he lets himself drift off to sleep. 

He even lets himself and Eddie sleep in, seeing as sleep is being so helpful. Eddie seems to approve, telling him that he's looking much less like death before sliding underneath the covers to give him a long, slow, wet blowjob— Drake winds up pulling the covers off so that he can watch, because it really is always a sight to behold. 

"There you go," says Eddie once Drake's head has fallen back on the pillow, taking in deep breaths that don't really hurt at all as he recovers from his orgasm. "Now it's less weird, you being in my bed all day without any sex— this was much more 'us,'" he says, rolling off the bed to go use the bathroom. 

Drake huffs out a laugh as he drags his borrowed pants and underwear back up his hips. Eddie's not exactly wrong about that. 

He finds a garment bag hanging from the back of the door that he'd been too sick to be curious about yesterday and discovers that it is indeed his and full of clothes— Treece really is very good at his job— and is dressed in nice, normal clothes that fit him by the time that Eddie returns, a strangely… disappointed look on his face. 

"I want to take your temperature," he says, walking around the bed to retrieve the thermometer. Drake doesn't object and simply opens his mouth— one of the jobs that Treece is very good at is threatening people, and he's not going to stop Eddie from doing what he's been threatened into doing. "Ninety-nine point two," says Eddie when the thermometer beeps. "Guess you're really feeling better," says Eddie. 

Drake smiles and presses a kiss to his cheek. "You did a good job yesterday, thank you," he says before grabbing his tablet and heading into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of his smoothie. 

Eddie follows, opening up the fridge and staring in it briefly. "Could maybe make you one of those egg white omelets you like so much if you wanted one," he says. 

Drake nods, heading to the bathroom to brush his own teeth. "If you really felt like making one, I wouldn't mind eating one, thank you," he says. While Eddie's cooking, he also takes a moment to send a quick message to Treece to make sure that his chauffeur will meet him at the usual spot in about a half hour. 

Eddie's version of an egg white omelet isn't the prettiest thing ever, and it's much heavier on the butter than Drake's accustomed to, but it tastes all right, and Drake appreciates the effort. It'll make getting back to work all the faster, and he tries to be a good houseguest, so he cleans his plate. "Thanks for all of this," he says as he takes his plate over to the sink to rinse it off. "And all joking last night aside, I really hope you don't get this. It was miserable," he admits, leaning back on the counter. 

Eddie shrugs. "That your way of telling me you won't be playing nurse for me? Because I wasn't expecting it," he says, pushing past Drake to put his own dish in the sink. 

Drake huffs out a laugh. "Sorry. Won't even be on this side of the country for the rest of the week, I'm afraid, but at least you'll have plenty of soup," he adds with a grin. 

Eddie frowns at that as he turns off the tap and starts scrubbing the plates. "You're going out of town?" he asks lightly. "Not that it's my business, I just— I could actually go for a week without seeing you." 

Drake chuckles at that. "I bet you could. But yes: I'll be in New York for the rest of the week. It's the Met Gala, and Veronique wants me to be there for the fittings and everything," he says, turning his tablet back on because he needs to send an email to Guo Pei— last year she'd still essentially been sewing his suit while he put it on and he doesn't want that kind of headache again— but he's also not going to be shown up by the likes of Harry Osborn when it comes to Met Gala outfits. 

When he looks up, Eddie's gnawing on his lower lip and still scrubbing the same plate. "Well— good to know that when Veronique Guerrero says 'jump,' even billionaires ask how high," he says, his smile very tight and not quite reaching his eyes. 

It's not the reaction that Drake had been expecting— to be honest, he hadn't been expecting a reaction at all. "Well— supermodels, you know how they are," he says with a shrug, tucking his tablet under his arm. "Thanks again," he adds, pressing a quick kiss to the side of Eddie's face before heading out the door. 

All that minor unpleasantness behind him now, Drake is more than ready to get back to work.

**Author's Note:**

> ... Carlton Drake is cold blooded, I know. The next fic will be the last one that takes place during the "Six Months Later" title card, and after that... we'll see if I'm up to writing Drake Attempts to Pull a Zuko. But he's just not there yet. Thanks again for reading!


End file.
